


Concussions Suck, Just Sayin'

by Idkitiswhatitis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Head Injury, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, Major Character Injury, Mild Blood, Panic Attacks, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Wincest - Freeform, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-15 17:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idkitiswhatitis/pseuds/Idkitiswhatitis
Summary: On a solo salt-and-burn hunting trip, Dean sustains a head injury.





	1. Easy? Yeah, right

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between 13x8-9. Between looking for Cas and Jack. This is my first fic and I'm new to the fandom. It's meant as a little piece of fluff, no relationships, but could easily go any number of directions. I may add to it or abandon. Idk yet. Un-beta-ed. Errors all mine.
> 
> Also, I don't own anything. This is a work of fiction based on other people's efforts and I'm poor and don't make money from this, etc. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: I wrote the attic scene really early. It ended up not fitting with my plot and got cut. I posted the original if anyone wants to see how it was supposed to go before I went a different route. See inspired works at the end for the link on AO3.

"'Just a quick salt-and-burn,' he said. 'Won't take more than an hour,' he said. 'It'd be fun,' he said. Right." Dean kicks his duffle out of the way and leans against the headstone. The fire burns away what is left of the stubborn corpse. Dean spits into the hole for good measure. He dabs at the cut on his forehead. Blood obscures his vision and pisses him off further. He curses as he dabs the blood. 

"My favorite flannel," he moans. His ribs throb. His head throbs. His knees hurt. Even his toes hurt after he tripped from running away from the thing. "I am too damn old for this shit." 

He slides his hand into his pocket to finger the phone inside. He thinks about calling Sam but doesn't want to sound needy. He resolves to wait until he fills in the hole and gets back in the car. Job isn't done until it's done, right?

He carefully stretches to stand and picks up the shovel. The fire has died enough that he doesn't worry about the ghost coming back. Stiff and painful shovel load after shovel load has him in an even fouler mood. He finally grabs his duffle with a grunt and a few choice words. The dawn is beginning to break in soft pastels in the distance. He sighs. Another sleepless night.

He throws his bag in the trunk with the shovel. He gently (it is his baby) closes the trunk and slides into the front seat. Too tired to stay still, he starts the engine and drives back to his motel. A couple hours sleep then he'll text Sam. He opens his room door with swollen and stiff fingers. The room is obnoxiously bright. He doesn't care. He flops straight onto the bed and passes out.

 

Of course, it's the ringing that wakes him a few hours later. Groggy and miserable, he answers with a grumpy, "Wha-?"

"You didn't call, Dean! Are you ok?" Sam's panicked voice jumpstarts his brain. Crap. He really should have texted earlier.

"Hey, yeah man, I'm fine. Came back to the room and crashed." He tries to hide some of the pain from his voice. He should have taken ibuprofen, at the least, before he fell asleep. Half a week of little to no sleep and being locked by a ghost in its attic definitely takes a toll on one's sensibility.

"It's been four days, Dean. Four days. You didn't think to answer your phone in four days?" Bitchy Sam. Awesome. Dean flips over from his stomach and shuffles back to lean against the probably really gross headboard. His body disagrees with the movement. He covers the speaker to hide his grunts.

"Dean?" Sam asks. He is really taking too long to reply but he feels like cursing, so, he just needs a minute. He is not in the mood for Sam's bitching. (Is he ever?)

"I'm fine, Sammy. Really. Just sore and tired. I'll tell you all about it over a beer tonight." Is he slurring his words? Huh. Really tired then.

"Ok," Sam replies with hesitancy in his voice." Ok, yeah. Sounds good. See you later." 

Sam ends the call. Dean tosses his phone down on the bed and scrubs at his face. He has about ten hours of driving ahead of him. Might as well start sooner rather than later. He strips on his way to the bathroom, ribs screaming at him to quit moving. In the bathroom, he avoids his face and checks out his sides. The bruises are embarrassingly large. He gets mad again and looks at the rest of himself. Bumps and bruises cover him, not surprising after a hunt. He does have more than he should after an easy, solo hunt. 

He finally caves to look at the gash on his brow. The dried blood on his face is unappealing. He pokes at the wound. He probably needs stitches. He doesn’t have the time. He'll glue it after his shower. Stiff legs protesting, still, he winces as he steps over the edge of the bathtub. He growls as the heat hits his back. It feels nice but it kind of sucks. Must be too hot because he feels faintly dizzy. He shrugs and keeps scrubbing off the dirt and grime. The cut on his forehead protests the soap suds around it. He grits his teeth and cleans the wound regardless. He turns off the water and grabs his towel. 

The hot water loosened his sore muscles some, but he still feels like shit. He reenters the room to dig through his clothes. He slides the clothes on carefully, rage increasing. Recognizing his anger is from pain, he grabs a bottle of painkillers and knocks a couple back dry. He feels something sliding down his face. He touches it and sees blood dripping through his fingers. He frowns. The bleeding should have stopped but maybe the shower and cleaning reopened it. 

The first aid kit is waiting in the outside zipper pocket of his duffle. He grabs it and goes to the mirror in the bathroom. He leans against the cool sink. His frown deepens as he looks at the gash on his brow. Had it been so big before? He couldn't remember. He remembered it being about two inches and fairly shallow. Enough to bleed and cause a tiny bit of concern, but not bad. Now, though, his reflection is showing him a much different wound. The cut extends from the middle of his forehead, follows down his hairline, and stops almost at his ear. It's deep and wide. Something white is visible in the deepest part of the gash. Blood pours down his face and drips softly into the sink. 

"Ah!" He panics and reaches for the nearest towel. His hands shake and he presses hard on the wound. The pain brings bile to his throat. The sink is still cold against his thighs. He pulls the towel down and shakes harder at the sheer amount of red. Head injuries, man. Don't mess with head injuries, he told that to Sam once, didn't he?. 

"Think," he commands himself. "What happened?" He presses against the wound with the towel again. He meets his eyes in his reflection, trying to remember. The witch, no, the ghost. Ghost? Something. Sure, something threw him against the wall in the attic. Attic? Was it really an attic? He was in the, the thing. That one thing. There, there was…something? 

If only his head would stop hurting, then he could figure this out. Or Sammy could. Sammy is the smart one. Right? 

"I need the, the thing. The ringing thing. The, ah damn it, what's it called?" He rushes to the bed. He pats down the bedspread looking for his phone. "Phone! Damn it. It's called a phone. Ugh." 

Blood smears on the screen from his fingers. He tries to unlock it with his thumb but the screen won't recognize his touch. He swipes to unlock it with his password. He looks at the numbers. Are they numbers? He holds the phone further away from his face. He sees shapes and blobs. He could read just a moment ago, why not now? Muscle memory remembers where his fingers should go, though. His phone opens.

He can't recognize any of the symbols. 

He roars in frustration. Part of him understands that something in his head is broken. Part of him is digressing into childlike frustration and helplessness. 

He takes a deep breath and tries to focus his eyes on the apps. 

"Looking for the talk app. The one where I talk to Sammy. It's green with the little thingy on it. The talk one." Several moments pass as he flips through the screens looking for the phone app. He gives up looking and presses the first one he can see. A white screen with several blurry lines comes up. He shrugs in desperation and taps the first squiggly line. 

"Dean? What's up?" Dean hears Sam's voice, he knows he does, but he can't understand the words Sam is saying. It can't be English, whatever he's speaking. 

"Sam, I, I—" Dean tries but they're gone. His words are gone. He gestures pointlessly in the room at the mirror. He points at his forehead. A kind of cry escapes his mouth, "S-Sam. Sam, it's…I…Sam!" 

Sam's voice squeaks through the phone but Dean doesn't understand what his brother is trying to   
say. Dean throws his phone against the wall. He drops to the ground, hugs his knees, and weeps.

Some time later, a noise wakes Dean. A key in the lock. Dean scrambles away from the door as light penetrates the room. He is reduced to fear and lack of understanding. A man enters the room. Seeing Dean's fright, he holds up his hands in supplication. He slowly eases, baby step by baby step, closer to Dean's huddled from. The man has kind eyes and a dark beard. He is talking. He is saying something, but Dean only hears muttered sounds. The man looks at Dean's face with understanding. He raises something to his ear and speaks more sounds. He steps back from Dean and pokes at the thing in his hand again. More sounds. 

The man stands on the opposite side of the room, rather patiently. Dean does not trust this man enough to relax from his huddled corner next to the bed. The man keeps making quiet sounds Dean can't understand. Finally, a louder sound comes. It's not a nice sound. It's loud and high pitched and wailing. The man leaves for a moment then returns with several more people. They all make sounds with their mouths towards Dean's general direction. Dean just stares at them in fear. The first man approaches Dean and motions toward the men. He says something and Dean recognizes one word, "Ambulance." 

Dean nods, "White, loud." The man nods back. He carefully places one hand on Dean's elbow with a question in his eye. Probably said out loud, too. Dean flinches at the contact. The man points at Dean's head and makes a face, like a wince of pain. Dean frowns and touches his brow. It's painful. He looks at his hand. It has blood. He jumps in shock. When did he hurt his head? The man tugs at his elbow again and motions toward the men at the door. Ambulance. Good. Ambulances are good. He carefully stands. He falls forward, though. All three men end up catching him. He allows himself to be led away and packed into the loud, white ambulance.

 

"You’re his brother?" The doctor asks politely.

Sam nods and waits for her to continue speaking.

"Well, he suffered a concussion. No brain bleed, so that's good. He is suffering from aphasia, or, difficulty speaking and understanding language. He has had a mild traumatic brain injury, so he's going to be out of it. It could take up to a year for him to fully recover. Even then, he may not be exactly the same. It's going to take a lot of patience and love to help him heal, ok?" Sam nods again. The doctor pats his shoulder and hands him a caregiver's guide for discharge. "The nurses can go over cleaning the wound with you later. Nothing else is broken but he sure did take a beating. Until he can tell us what happened, we may never know. That said, we're going to keep him overnight for observation, but he should be completely fine. Give him time."

Sam watches the doctor walk away before looking at the sheet in his hands. Dean's ok enough to be sleeping. He had been asleep since Sam had gotten here. The results of Dean's CT scan had come in hours before Sam was even in the same state. Dean's fine. But, he's really not. Looking at the sheet in his hands, Dean can't participate in combat or high-risk activities for at least week. It can take 43 days, minimum for his brain to fully heal. Maybe even 100 days. No hunting for two weeks. Assuming he can begin to speak normally soon and didn't suffer more severe damage that could show up later, especially considering the other head trauma Dean has suffered. Damn it. 

How is he going to keep Dean from physical activity for two weeks? Not only that, but also decreased mental activity and no alcohol? Will he really be "ok"?

Sam scrubs his face with one hand and pushes his hair out of his face. One thing at a time. He walks into Dean's room. It's quiet. Dark. Smells like hospital sterilization. He glances at Dean's face. He's still out. Sam sighs and sits in the comfortable chair in the corner. Might as well rest while he can. 

Between the nurses entering to check on Dean's vitals and his tailbone going numb, Sam does not sleep very well. He finally wakes up fully when the sun lights up the whole room. He stretches with a yawn and looks over at Dean. Blank green eyes observe him.

"Dean. Hey," Sam whispers. His head might still be really sore. He's not sure. He moves to sit next to Dean on the bed. "How you doin'?" 

Dean tilts his head. After a long moment where Sam is about to freak out because his own brother doesn't recognize him, Dean moves. He raises one hand and boops Sam's nose. "Sammy."

He says nothing but smiles enough that Sam knows Dean is happy he's there. Dean knows who Sam is. Small comforts.

Dean drops his hand. He leans back into the pillows behind him and touches his brow tentatively. He winces. He aims a frustrated look of disgust at Sam. Sam nods his understanding and pats Dean's shoulder. Dean smiles softly again.

At least Dean can communicate a little. It's better than understanding nothing at all.

 

Dean wakes up when the last nurse touches the pokey thing in his arm. It kind of hurts but not as bad as his headache. She leaves quickly. He doesn't particularly care. His room is really white. The light entering the room is hurting his eyes. He looks away when he notices something. There is a person sitting in the room. In the chair. A big person. With the light silhouetting the person, Dean can't tell who it is. He stares until his eyes can't handle it anymore and he looks away. 

He stares off in silence for some time until the big person shifts around. Dean looks over at him. The voice mutters something. The sounds are pleasant. He knows this voice. The big man sits gently on the bed beside him. He makes more sounds. The man's brow furrows and Dean remembers a name. He lifts his hand to touch Sam's nose.

"Sammy." The name is enough to make him smile. Sam smiles and Dean remembers dimples. Sam's dimples melted his heart when he was a tiny boy. Smiling pulls at the skin around his eyes. He touches his head and feels a bandage. He presses too hard and winces. He vaguely remembers something about being hurt. He makes a face. Sam smiles like he knows what he means. His gentle touch at Dean's shoulder lifts another smile on his face. Dean likes when Sam touches him. 

"Dimple," Dean says and touches the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam looks completely baffled before he barks out an unexpected laugh. Even more dimples show up around his mouth and Dean pokes at each tiny movement of flesh with delight. Sam starts giggling at Dean and pushes his hands away, just like when Sam was little. Dean halts his movements and feels his eyes crease in joy. "My Sammy," he says. 

Sam scrunches his nose but replies, "Yeah, your Sammy, Dean."

And, Dean understands.


	2. Don't Do That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean start on their journey back to the bunker. More of Dean's recovery. A tiny bit of plot surfaces...
> 
> EDIT: Tags updated. If you're triggered by panic attacks, they do show up in this chapter.
> 
> Edit x2: embedded the wheel pic :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title based on what we all have wanted to say to Sam and Dean at least 400 times. 
> 
> Thanks for positive feedback! I need the encouragement and it really did inspire me to keep going!
> 
> Unbeta'd.

"Dean, you are not driving," Sam makes to reach for the keys again, but Dean finds a way, sore ribs and head and all, to duck under his arms. How does he do that?

"My car. My keys." Dean tosses a superior look over at Sam and unlocks the Impala. He barely has the door open before he sways. Sam grabs his shoulder to steady him, but Dean just shakes the touch away. "I'm 'k."

"Seriously, dude, no. You cannot drive." Sam takes advantage of Dean's dizziness to hold his wrist and steal the keys away. Dean casts a baleful glance at Sam, then the driver's seat, before conceding. He sits a moment behind Baby's wheel, pats her lovingly, and moves over to the passenger's side.

"You could have just walked around," Sam mumbles. Dean either doesn't hear, understand, care, or some mixture of the three. He ignores Sam, buckles himself in, and pouts. Sam wishes for the, "bitch," that should follow, but doesn’t say anything.

Dean looks out the window and mutters, again, "My car."

"Yeah, Dean, we know," Sam snorts. "When the dizziness passes I'll let you drive. 'Til then, you've got nine whole hours of being a passenger."

Dean grunts his disapproval. "Nine? Where--?" Dean gestures at their surroundings. Sam frowns at him.

"Waco." Dean shows no sign of recognition. "We're in Waco. Texas. Ghost hunt?"

"Hm," he grunts. His brow furrows in confusion.

"Nothin'?" Sam asks. Dean shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the window.

"I'm going to stop by your motel room, alright?" Dean doesn't say anything or even acknowledge that Sam has spoken. Again, Sam isn't sure if Dean just doesn't understand or if he doesn't want to answer. Dean needs rest, so Sam doesn't push.

 

The motel is just as dingy as the thousands of others they had stayed at over the years. Sam parks in front of room 117. He lifts Dean's arm and digs in his jacket pocket for the room key. Dean watches him wordlessly, trustingly, and follows Sam, car doors slamming in unison.

The door to Dean's room has blood on the handle. Good sign.

The key has blood on it, too. Awesome.

Sam turns the handle and opens the door. He flicks the light on. It doesn't seem disturbed, other than Dean's sloppy end-hunt mess, clothes and paper strewn about. Dean stands in the doorway then shrugs. He begins throwing his things into his duffle.

"You might want some clean clothes, Dean." Dean tilts his head for a moment at Sam. Sam pulls a shirt out and hands it to him. Dean nods. He pulls out a whole outfit and begins to change out of his blood-smeared and hospital-stink clothes. Dean doesn't notice Sam watching as he unbuttons his flannel. Sam feels the need to look away but shamelessly disregards the voice commanding him to do so. The flannel slides down Deans shoulders. He throws it haphazardly into his bag. He pulls off his tee with a heavy wince. Huge bruises rake up his sides from hip to shoulder. Sam fights a rush of nausea and looks away.

On the desk in the corner, Dean's research is sprawled out. Sam gathers Dean's notes on the case. A strange symbol is sketched heavily on the edge of one of the papers. It looks like a wheel.

Uncertain if it means anything, Sam takes a photo for later.

"Huh," he says quietly while looking at his phone.

"Hm?" Dean replies just as softly. He is fully clothed again and rummaging through his bag for who knows what.

"Oh, just, there's no service. Nothing." Dean does his quiet acknowledgment thing before tying his boot laces up. Explains why he missed my calls, Sam thinks. "Did you grab your charger?"

Dean stares blankly.

"For the love of—" Sam reaches behind the bed to pull out the cord when he notices the pillow on the bed. He had missed it when he first entered the room because the bedspread is covered in awful burgundy flowers. The pillow is red and stiff with dried blood. "Dude!"

Dean jumps and puts a hand to his forehead. Too loud, oops.

"Sorry, it's just," he holds up the pillow. Dean pales and points at his chest. "Yeah, it's yours. You didn't know you were bleeding?" Dean shrugs. He's much too quiet. The shadows under his eyes look darker. Weariness must be setting in.

Sam puts the pillow back on the bed. He pulls out the charger and slips it into Dean's bag. Dean has gone still, his gaze directed downward. A towel lies on the ground. Sam picks it up. It's covered in red, too.

"I used that," Dean says. His eyes are wide. "I-it wasn't, I d-didn't know," he stutters and touches the bandage. "It was l-little then big and bad."

Sam crosses the room to stand by him, dropping the towel on the bed, "Sh, Dean. It's ok. You're ok, alright?" He holds his shoulders and looks into Dean's eyes. He is so young, here in this moment. He's remembering pain, and he doesn't know what to do with it. "You're ok. I'm here now, ok?"

Dean nods. He eases his hands up to cling to Sam's elbows. "Blood. White." Dean points a shaking finger to his head. White? What would be white--?

"Shit." Bone. He was cut to the bone, literally. Dean shakes his head to clear the memory. Then grimaces at the movement.

"Car?" He asks. If he tone is pleading, Sam isn't going to point it out.

"Yeah, yeah. In a sec. Let me make sure we have everything." Sam clears the rest of the room. He frowns at the blood in the bathroom. It's in the sink, on the mirror. It's everywhere. Did Dean not bandage his wound at all?

Sam leads Dean to the car and walks to the office. He leaves the key and a few hundred dollars for cleanup.

When he returns to the car, Dean is playing with his phone. He grins after Sam sits in his seat.

"I can read." He looks proud with his cheeks raising to squish his eyes almost shut. His wrinkles fold and Sam smiles back.

"Good job," he says, mostly genuinely. Later, Dean can take it as sarcasm. "Your doctor said you needed to rest for the next few days. How about you play with your phone later?"

Dean looks at his hands. He frowns but tucks his phone into his pocket. With a huge put-upon sigh, he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. Sam shakes his head but starts the car. Dean is asleep before they hit the highway.

Sam sneaks a glance over at Dean. Then, when he realizes he is being a dork, he stares freely. Purple shadows have started to form under Dean's left eye. His hands boast bruising, too, as they rest loosely clasped together in his lap. Sam focuses on the stretch of road ahead and enjoys the rare quiet of the car. Normally, Dean would have turned up his 80s rock to full blast, and slept through it, noise be damned. The change is nice, at least for now.

If Sam were to describe Dean on any other day, the word, "quiet," would never enter his vocabulary. Like, ever. Except, you know, when he was researching or something. Even then, though, Dean was sipping at his coffee, or grunting in annoyance. He was never really silent.

A soft rumble makes Sam smile. Dean's snores ensure the car is a decibel louder than silent as they travel out of Texas.

 

Dean opens his eyes and sees that Sam has stopped Baby for something or another. They're next to the thing that puts food in the car. What do cars eat? There's a nozzle and a hose…Why the hell can he remember the word nozzle but not gas? Oh, wait, gas. Yeah, that's the word he was looking for. Sam must have stopped for gas. He isn't outside the car, though, so he must have gone in that one place for some of those things that you use for food to…ugh. Enough is enough. Things don't have to have names to still be things.

Dean rubs his face. He pulls the tape on his forehead a little. "Son of a bitch." The tape is high in his hairline and sticking to the fine hairs on his brow. Stings like a bitch.

His ability to swear is coming back nicely. Awesome.

He hears a little bell ding and looks up. Sam is headed back toward the car with plastic bags in hand. Once he sits in the driver's seat, he sets the goodies down between them.

"For you," Sam says while handing over a chocolate bar and soda.

"Sammy, you're awesome. Like, you're the best little…Sammy ever." Dean almost doesn’t get mad when he can't think of the right word. He tears open the chocolate bar and scarfs it. Sam laughs and pulls out a bottled water. His brother could be such a…wait, "Damn it, you son of a bitch. It's brother. Little brother. Not little Sammy. Ugh."

Sam sputters on his sip of water. "You can remember bitch but not brother?" His lips quirk as he puts the lid back on his bottle and starts Baby up again. Dean shakes his head before he forgets, again, that it hurts to do so.

"This is stupid. I should just, I should just be able, I should just…Damn it! I've got Tourette's now!"

"Dean, no, that's not what's happening," Sam's laughter is kind of making Dean feel worse. "That is so disrespectful to people with Tourette's. Anyway, seriously, dude, your brain's connections are just a bit messed up. It'll sort out. Just give it some time."

"Time shime. I really am the dumb one now."

"Come on, Dean, you're a genius. It'll work itself out. Get some rest. It'll get better."

"Better, my ass," Dean curses. Sam glances over at him. Seeing the hint of a smirk in Dean's eyes, Sam laughs.

"You may not use this as an excuse to be an ass." Sam pauses. "Jerk."

"Bitch." The word flows easily off Dean's tongue.

 

Tourette's. Of all the things he could think of, he goes with Tourette's. He couldn't even understand his command to get dressed earlier. Brain injuries, man. They're a bitch. Sam vaguely remembers Dean telling him something like that when they were kids. Sam quirks a half smile and makes sure to hide it from Dean. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam doesn't think Dean notices.

"What are those?" Sam points at a grove of post oaks passing behind them. Dean follows the trees and turns behind him to keep watching them.

"Trees. Oak?" Uncertainty clouds his eyes for a moment.

"Yeah, good." Sam hums his approval and Dean's face softens out of its confusion.

"You'd climb 'em. Not after the fall, though." Dean focuses internally and stares out the window.

"I remember. You told me to come back inside, but I was mad and trying to prove I could do it. Fell and broke my arm."

"I couldn't, I couldn't…You fell but I couldn't, c-couldn't grab, couldn't grab you." Terror changes Dean's features. His pupils dilate and his breath hitches. He clenches his fists and pushes himself further back into the seat. Tensing himself up like that is gonna be hell for his sore ribs.

"Hey, hey, Dean. It's ok," Sam says softly and eases onto the shoulder and parks Baby. He faces Dean and leans over toward him. He reaches for his hands and holds them in his own. Dean's eyes bore into his. Sam can hear Dean's breath rush in and out. Dean winces at every labored breath. "Dean, you've got to calm down. It's ok. I fell but I was ok, just like how I've been ok after everything we've been through. We're good, Dean. We're good."

Dean doesn't respond, so Sam squeezes the hands within his own with more force, bruises be damned.

"Dean," he says loudly. "Dean, listen to me."

Dean keeps panicking. Sam feels his own anxiety increase but won't let himself give in to the feeling, not right now.

"Dean!" Sam shouts. Dean jumps and his breath catches. Sam takes one of his hands away from Dean's to hold his jaw. "Dean, come back. I'm here. I'm ok. Dean!"

Sam raises his other hand to Dean's face and gently massages his jaw. The wide-eyed look in Dean's eye gradually eases into something resembling calmness, if not quite there. Each touch soothes him bit by bit. The stress leaves Dean's shoulders. His hands slowly unclench. He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. Sam drops his left hand to Dean's neck, leaving his right on Dean's jaw. He gently massages his neck and jaw until Dean opens his eyes again.

"Sorry, Sammy." Dean lifts his right hand to hold onto Sam's right wrist, the hand on his neck. Sam drops his left and lets Dean cling to his other arm. With a final squeeze, Dean pushes Sam's arm back. "Drugs, please."

"Yeah, sure. Hold on." Sam jumps out of the Impala and opens her trunk. He finds the bottle of painkillers. He leans against the open trunk, closes his eyes, and counts to ten. Deep breaths. It'll be fine.

He blows out another "calming" breath before shutting the lid and sitting back in the driver's seat. He takes out one white pill and hands it over. He hands over his water bottle. Dean throws the pill back and chugs the water.

"Get goin'," Dean whispers. "Miss my bed." He leans his back against the seat, again, and closes his eyes.

Sam starts Baby up again, determined to make it out of Oklahoma in record time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a plot in mind, now. I'm thinking of maybe 5 chapters and under 20,000 words. I'll update tags as I think of it. If I miss something, please holler!
> 
> Also, Dean's symptoms are based on past experiences. If anything seems off, let me know.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Update: I created a Tumblr sideblog for Wincest stuff called "Wincesty-ish?". On that blog, I added a pic of Dean's drawing, too.


	3. The Plot Thickens, Ish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is still having panic attacks, but he is remembering and speaking more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/comfort is my favorite :)
> 
> I also adore pining and angst, so guess what's making an appearance :) :) :) Not heavy, but present. There's a bit of fluff, too.
> 
> This is feeling a bit more Wincesty than I originally intended. If that ain't your cup o' tea, I get it. I'm going to go ahead and tag it as such, just in case.

Despite sleeping most of the way to Lebanon, Dean falls asleep as soon as he is tucked into his memory foam mattress. Sam presses a hand against the middle of his back. He doesn't move, so Sam starts tracing light circles for a moment. Bending over hurts his back, so he pats Dean's head lightly for a moment before pulling back from the touch. Sam turns on the desk light and exits the room, leaving the door open.

He returns to the car and unpacks what he hadn't wanted to mess with before. This is so much easier with help from brothers. He sighs and throws the bags on the table in the War Room. Something thunks metallically in a way that it should not thunk. Frowning, Sam drops the bags again. Dean's duffel makes the weird sound. He unzips and digs through the clothes to the bottom of the bag. 

It's a frying pan. What the hell is a frying pan doing at the bottom of Dean's clothes bag? He sets the pan down with a thud. Removing the remaining clothing items, Sam finds several objects wrapped in brown paper, and a plastic bag with another bag in it. A receipt dangles out of the corner of the plastic bag. It's for a rather large sum of money (at least for them) to a Craft Village in Waco. The handwritten itemized list includes: four handmade pottery mugs ($120), one cast iron skillet ($40), one (small) handmade doll ($12), one toy top ($8), and a handmade shampoo soap bar ($30).

Sam opens the plastic bag. A tiny doll, hardly larger than his finger, is bundled in a tiny blanket and pillow. Sam snorts and sets its down gently. He isn't certain but he can guess who gets the baby toy. A wooden top is at the bottom of the bag. He spins it on the table. He smirks a little when it falls over. Not a dream, then.

The second bag holds the shampoo bar. He sniffs it, knowing it's for him, and is pleased to note it is unscented. He carefully unwraps the four mugs. He smiles at the tiny imperfections between the set. They're a mixture of brown and a pale forest green and Sam gets lost looking at them for a moment. The green is striking. Like…like…He blushes when he realizes he is thinking of Dean's eyes. Lame. So lame. He is not an angst-ridden teen. Ridiculous. 

Still, he aligns the mugs in a row and fingers the design on each. He likes them because they are well made. That's all. Really well made. The other purchases are, too. 

Why was Dean even at the Craft Village to begin with?

Sam searches through the remaining bags. He finds Dean's research from the motel and begins studying. 

 

Dean awakes with a headache. And a neckache. And a ribache. And, just, you know, general pain and discomfort. The right side of his face is pressed into his pillow. His bedroom door is wide open and sending the garish hallway light into his eyes. Which sucks, 'cause his head hurts. He rolls over to his back with a few colorful cuss words.

He settles back down on his memory foam mattress. Man, it's the bomb. It kind of soothes pain without you really noticing. He loves his bed. 

"Wait," he murmurs. He did not fall asleep in his bed. "Sammy!"

 

Sam barely opens the dossier detailing Dean's adventure in the Craft Village when he hears Dean's cry. He leaves the pages on the War Room table and jogs down the hall to Dean's room. He rounds the corner to see Dean perched on the edge of his bed looking bewildered. Bewildered is much better than panicked.

"Dean? How are you doing?" he asks quietly. He sits next to Dean.

"Dude, what happened?" 

"Well, uh, a few things." Sam pauses to clear his throat. He folds his fingers together and puts on his interviewing face. "What do you remember?"

"Um, can you maybe give me a recap?"

"Ok, well, here's what I know." Sam clears his throat. Again. Shame colors his voice, "You left here. You were upset about Luther and took the first case you could get your hands on. I stayed here to look for Jack. We'd had that fight, you know, and, uh, I didn't call right way. Figured you were mad. But, uh, I got worried after four days of silence. I called and…One, two, skip a few and you were in the hospital in Waco, Texas. Then, we came here."

"Huh," Deans says unhelpfully. He leans forward, elbows on knees. He brings his hands together and picks at his cuticles. "I guess I remember some stuff, now that you say that. I burned the corpse. It was ghost, but, after that. It's—" Dean waves his hands in the air. 

"Fuzzy?" Sam offers.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, like, I know stuff happened. It feels like stuff happened, but there's just this, not really a blank, but. I dunno. My head feels off. Slow." He rubs his brow and flinches at the bandage he finds there. 

At his surprise, Sam asks, "Do you remember hitting your head?"

"Yes? Maybe?" Dean scrunches up his eyes in concentration. "What did I do?"

He jumps up and rushes to the mirror in his room. Sam watches him peel layer after layer of bandage away. He grimaces as the tape pulls the edge of wound. Deans flinches at the sheer number of stitches lining his face. 

"Shit." His breath catches. "Shit, shit, shit. Son of a bitch." 

"Dean?" His brother's chest starts heaving. Another panic attack is starting. Sam hurries to his side. "Hey, talk to me, man."

"I can't, Sam. I can't remember. I don't know what I know. I don't know what I don't know. Sam, what if I forgot some important stuff, what if, if, if I—" The pitch of Dean voice lowers and the words force roughly out. His eyes stay on the wound he sees in the mirror. His fingers trace up and down the wound, over and over. His rapid breathing not slowing.

"Dean, hey, we've got to get you to calm down, ok. You're having a panic attack." Sam gently touches his right shoulder. The flannel under is hand raises and lowers with every breath. The touch does nothing to calm him. "Dean, come on. Let's sit down." 

Dean doesn't respond. Sam takes told of both shoulders and steers him away from the mirror toward the bed. Dean's eyes remain focused inward, never moving, as Sam moves him, feet hardly shuffling over the floor. With a bit of huffing on his behalf, Sam gets Dean to lay down on the bed. Sam lays down next to him on his side, facing Dean.

"Dean, we've got to slow your breathing. Breathe with me, ok? Deep breath in, slow breath out. Ok? Come on, Dean, with me." Sam demonstrates the technique again. Dean's shallow breaths try to match his. It takes a few minutes, but Dean's breath does slow. His eyes flutter shut. A pained expression flicks across his face and he covers his face with his hands. 

After a moment, Sam hears a sob. 

"I can't keep doing this, Sam. I'm just…I'm so weak. I hate it. I hate feeling like this. Because you know what? You know what? One day, I really, really will forget every, everything. One day, I'll forget, I'll forget you. I dunno if it'll be because, if it's because I'll be hurt or dead, but I'll forget you and what, what will I do then? Sam? What will I do if I don't know you?" Dean lifts his hand away from his eyes. He turns to look at Sam and grips his collar tightly. The green of his eyes reflects the light from the desk lamp and his desperation. 

Sam traces his cheekbone forward and back, creating a calming rhythm for Dean to follow. 

"You have always known me before, Dean. Even as a demon, when you wanted to rip my throat out, you still knew who I was. When the witch's spell took your memory, you knew me then. I don't think you can forget me. Just as I couldn't forget you when Lucifer was in me. We are too ingrained in one another to be capable of that." 

The hopelessness in Dean's eyes shifts into something quieter. He breathes out (morning breath into Sam's face, awesome) and closes his eyes. He tilts his head forward to rest his brow against Sam's.

"It gets better, Dean. It always does. Even when we think it won't, things end up better in some way."

Dean blows out another huff, but this time with humor (He really needs to brush his teeth.). "Yeah, yeah, Mr. Brightside. It all works out. Come on, I'm hungry." 

 

Later, after Dean eats, he asks, "Any news about, um, the devil's son?" He picks up the doll on the War Room table. He pokes at the doll's black-stitched eyes with a frown. "Damn thing is as creepy as the kid can be," he adds softly.

"Jack," Sam emphasizes the name, "is still MIA. Cas called. He may have a lead in Arizona, I guess? The call dropped." 

Dean shrugs and picks up the top. He spins it and smiles when it topples over. If Sam thinks it's precious they have the same reaction, then it's just, nothing. Not cute. Nope. They have similar tastes and live together. They should react similarly. They're brothers, so yeah, of course they think some stuff is funny and they think alike, and stuff. 

Dean moves his attention to the frying pan. He picks it up with a snort. 

"I was only going to buy this, I think, before the Amish guys roped me into buying way more. Scam artists, the lot of 'em." He balances the weight of it like a sword. He nods in approval at the weight distribution. Dean thinks Sam is a nerd? Right.

"Amish?" Sam asks.

"Well, ok, they weren't actually Amish but the women were all in long Amishy dresses and looked at me like I was Lucifer himself. Apparently, I have a turn off, 'cause dude, not hot. Their hair all done up like Miss Marple? Yeah, nope. Nope." Dean visibly shakes out his disgust before setting down the pan. He pokes at the coffee mugs on the table. 

"Oh, that makes sense," Sam nods his understanding. Craft Village. He pulls out his laptop and does a simple search for the Craft Village in Waco. Sure enough, a site pops up boasting of their handmade goods, including: pottery, wood working, and soap making. "Hm, interesting." 

He turns the laptop to Dean. He glances up and skims the page. 

"Yeah, looks familiar. Pretty sure I was there."

"Good to know. Do you remember anything else about your trip?" 

Dean shrugs. "Something about an attic. I don't remember where. Or why. Or how. Just, I was in an attic and my hands were tied. I think I was thrown against a wall? I dunno." He keeps touching the mugs. "Why? Why did I pick these? We have cups. Why did I get more? And, they were expensive. Why did I do that?"

"They're pretty?" Sam tries. Dean holds one up, then glances up at Sam's face. He looks between the two of them then blushes. He sets the cup down and jumps up.

"Uh, gotta go to the bathroom. Be right back." Dean turns from Sam's surprised face and hurries out of sight.

 

Damn it, Dean thinks. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Shit. Son of a bitch. 

That's one hell of a thing to forget.

Dean remembers what he can of the past few days, and feels like a complete moron. He locks himself in the bathroom and faces himself in the mirror. 

"Seriously?" he whispers angrily at his reflection. He bows his head and feels the cold porcelain of the sink. Cool like the bathroom of his motel room in Waco. He glances at his wound and carefully trails his finger down his hairline. He huffs a breath out and scrubs his face. 

Of course, he would be the type of person to forget boundaries. Sam and Dean do not snuggle. Dean does not poke at his brother's dimples. Dean is not calmed by his brother stroking his face. Dean does not say, "MY SAMMY," like a goddamn chant to calm his frazzled nerves. And, for the love of Chuck, Dean does not buy coffee mugs because they match his brother's hazel eyes.

Damn it all to hell. He bought the mugs before he was hurt. 

"Dean Winchester," he barks at his mirror self, "You are a piece of shit, but you will not act like one to Sammy. Got it? Get your shit together. No more freak outs. No more freakin' cuddling. If you're fine, he's fine. So, be fine and quit being…" he gestures toward his torso, "you. Yeah, quit being yourself and be Dean, ya little shit." 

He straightens his flannel. He squares his shoulders. He swipes his nose for emphasis and heads back to the War Room.

 

"Hey, you ok?" Sam asks when Dean sits next to him.

"Yeah, good. What'd ya find?" Dean clears his throat and avoids Sam's eyes. Sam studies him for a moment, because, face it, when does Sam ever not study Dean?

Sam lets whatever he was thinking be pushed aside for the moment. He picks up a piece of paper and hands it to Dean.

"See this symbol here?" Sam points toward the corner of the page where Dean had evidently drawn a wheel. 

"Hm, yeah. That's…something. What is that?" 

"Well, I thought it might be related to a spell or something. I couldn't find anything. I pulled up the website for the Craft Village again to check out the history of the place, and then realized I was being an idiot." Sam pulls up the webpage and turns the screen to Dean. "You drew the water wheel from the gristmill at the village."

Dean stares at the image on the screen, a vague recollection starting to form. 

"Hm," he says. 

"Do you remember anything?" Sam asks hopefully.

"Uh, yeah," Dean replies. Sam waits for a response. Dean frowns and stares at the image. "There was a ghost. Yeah, there was a ghost there." 

Dean stops speaking for a long moment. Sam waits patiently for Dean to continue but he seems lost for words.

"Dean?" Sam starts him out of his thoughts.

"Oh, um, yeah, yeah, I'm gonna, I'm gonna go back to bed. I'll tell you more l-later." Dean scrambles out of his chair. Sam watches him leave and feels his anxiety amplify. What did Dean remember?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are not familiar with Waco, TX, there is a "craft village". I will let you look it up, if you so desire. It was the basis of kind of a conspiracy several years ago that might be a trigger for some, so I won't mention anything here. 
> 
> Also, I'm not trying to be disrespectful of anyone's belief system, either. Dean is going to have some comments, we know he would, and I'm just trying to reflect that.
> 
> Thank you for reading! This is a great first fic experience. Y'all rock!


	4. Dreamin' of Ghosts, No Biggie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean handles a panic attack on his own, props to him. Then, has a night terror that Sam has to help him through. (Sounds like a euphemism but it's not really. Still Teen-rated :))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trope-y. So tropey. 
> 
> To be fair, the other chapters were too, I just realized how much so, though.
> 
> I went to a writer's convention once and there was this fairly successful author dude who was like, "Hey, the reason we have tropes is because people LOVE THEM. Tropes sell. Don't be ashamed to use tropes." 
> 
> So, I use tropes. I love tropes. Other people love tropes. All the tropes :)
> 
> Unbeta'd. Errors are from my sleepy eyes.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam knocks on Dean's door the next morning, trying patiently to still his heart's pattering rhythm. He hears pattering feet in response as the door opens.

"Yeah?" Dean's hair points in seventeen different directions. Sleep clumps his eyes together. 

"Going to the store. Need anything?" Sam asks. Dean blinks at him for a long moment. For a moment, Dean has the, "Are you speaking Klingon?" look on his face, and Sam worries Dean has slipped back into his speech difficulties. 

"Beer," he says, finally. He rubs his face and winces when he forgets, yet again, that his head was cut open a few days ago. 

Instead of denying his request outright, Sam replies, "Ok." He begins to turn away when Dean speaks again.

"Burgers." As it is barely nine in the morning, he can't imagine Dean wants burgers first thing. Well, this is Dean. 

"You cookin'?" Sam snorts.

"Yeah." Dean turns back to his room, eyes still squinting against the brightness.

"Anything else?" He asks to be polite.

"Boobs." 

Dean slams the door in his face. Sam catches the sound of his feet shuffling away before a loud squeak, which he hopes is Dean falling on the mattress. He laughs the whole way into the garage. Beer, burgers, and boobs. Were someone to ask him to describe Dean, those three words would probably come up.

 

Dean flops on his bed, face first, and wills his eyes to close. His forehead protests the pressure. He rolls over with an irritated grunt and stares angrily at the ceiling. His head throbs. Just because it can. He pushes himself up and looks for his pain pills. The nightstand is empty. He falls back again, stupidly. He hates taking them anyway. Alcohol is better. And, he hasn't ODed on alcohol lately.

Lack of sleep clogs his brain. At least, makes it even slower.

He throws his legs over the edge of the bed. He lets his head and stomach settle a moment before getting up. He rambles into the bathroom. After relieving himself, he pushes back the curtain and starts up the shower. The water pressure is awesome, as per usual. 

His head flares as he enters the stream, and he tilts forward. He catches himself on the opposite wall. He lets himself fall into it. His head presses against the cool of the tile and eases the pain some. 

"Shit!" He slams his palm against the wall in frustration. He is tired of this. Tired of the pain. 

Flashes of the incident with the ghost pass before his eyes. 

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe. Instead of calming things, like boobs, his brain pulls forth those damn, bad images, over and over. He sees himself being thrown. He sees himself being flipped. He sees tiny hands folding his fingers around his gun. He sees his gun going off. He feels pain at his head. His breath catches at each snapshot and tears stream down his face. 

He hears the ghost's sweet, gentle voice whispering, "No one will know," in an unending litany. 

No one will know. No one will know. No one will know.

The pace of his breathing increases until he feels faint. Oxygen won't enter his lungs. He falls to his knees with a crack. The water splashes at his back and burns but all he feels is the burn in his lungs. His chest expands and contracts. He can't breathe. His head swims. 

As wonderful as the showers in the bunker are, even they have a limited supply of hot water. The descent into chilly waters forces his mind to leave its dark place. He is shocked into conscious thought. His hands start to shake as the water continues to decrease in temperature. He finds the strength to reach up and shut off the faucet.

He crumples in a heap on the shower floor. Slowly, his breath returns. He hears Sam's voice, in his mind, telling him, "Deep breath in, slow breath out. Ok? Come on, Dean, with me." 

He envisions Sam huddled beside him in the small shower, chest heaving to match his own. Sam's arms circle around him gripping each bicep. He rubs slow circles against his skin. Each breath tickles against the hair at the back of Dean's neck. 

Finally, he feels the panic pass. His skin is cooled. He shivers and carefully rises to standing. Lack of sleep and loss of adrenalin leave him weak. He grabs the clothes from the lid of the toilet and throws them on. He stumbles tiredly back into his room. He tumbles into bed and pulls his comforter to his chin. He has a moment of pride in dealing with this by himself before falling asleep.

 

Sam returns, arms laden, to the bunker in high spirits. He puts the groceries away in kitchen. He hopes the alcohol-free substitute he found will pacify Dean. He had grabbed a few sodas, in case it did not. The lettuce, tomato, and ground beef go in the fridge. He leaves the buns and Busty Asians magazine on the counter. A few miscellaneous items, pie and peanut butter, are thrown into the cupboard.

He double checks the counter to make sure everything is where it ought to be. The silence overwhelms him. Dean should have bugged him by now. 

Sam's initial search does not reveal a Dean in the library, War Room, or bathroom. He knocks gently at Dean's door. When no sound returns his inquiry, he opens the door to peer in. Deep breaths of someone in deep sleep greet him. He shuts the door gently and lets Dean sleep. He needs the rest. 

He decides to continue mapping out Dean's hunt. So far, he knows that Dean was in Waco at the Craft Village investigating the mysterious disappearance of a 12 year old girl. The girl had been with her family in the gristmill. The family entered the giftshop attached to the mill, but the girl did not. Somehow, she vanished within ten feet of her parents and little brother without a sound or clue. Sam is not entirely certain what made Dean believe the case needed further exploration, but he ended up being right.

Though not one for meticulous notes, Dean still had the news story of a the missing girl printed out. A list of names and a brief description of interview notes, in their own special shorthand, reveal a single name Dean had not crossed out: Thomas Nithercott.

Figuring Nithercott was probably the ghost, or some suspect, Dean had encountered, Sam flips through the remaining papers looking for clues. There's nothing on Nithercott. Sam pulls out his laptop and begins searching.

 

Hours pass with Sam much wiser and much hungrier. He pushes his laptop away and stretches, feeling a handful of cracks and pops. As middle age approaches, he laments his upcoming decline. He has noticed Dean's speed decreasing. Hell, even Dean's recovery time from a little concussion has been much longer than any other head injury they've sustained.

At least they've survived long enough to be worried about arthritis.

Sam shakes his head. What's with his new fascination with age? He worries about sounding too young. He worries about getting too old. 

He puts his existential crisis on hold to check his phone. No new messages. It is long past lunch time. He scratches his belly with a yawn and decides to check on Dean again. His worry from Dean's hasty departure the night before begins to resurface. 

Dean's door is still firmly shut. Sam listens at the door before knocking. It seems like all he's done the past few days is wring his hands outside of Dean's door. 

He hears rustling, which can be one of two things: sex or nightmares. He is going to go with nightmares for the sake of making sure his pants stay the correct size. He quickly knocks. No answer. He opens the door lightly and peers into the room. 

Nightmare. 

Dean is thrashing back and forth across the bed. Sweat covers his brow as his fists clench the sheets. His back arches and a pained expression crosses his features.

If Sam was a normal person, he would not stare a moment too long at his brother's form. He would immediately rush to wake his brother from his obviously distressing dream. As it were, Sam is a sick, sick man, so he's going to savor, just for a moment, what his brother could look like in the throes of passion. 

"Sam," Dean moans, eyes closed. 

Sam jumps and feels heat in several parts of his body.

"Dean?" When Dean remains asleep, Sam cools. 

"Sam, Sam!" Dean's voice increases in volume. His flailing picks up in pace. His hands release their grip on the sheets and start swinging. He hits at imaginary foes. His knuckles bash the headboard. Sam sees blood trickle down his wrist. Still, Dean keeps moving, hitting, and rolling. He arches and collapses. His throws more punches and Sam can't watch him hurt himself. 

"Dean," he calls. "Dean, wake up. Dean!" 

He shouts. He yells. He screams. Dean does not hear him. He continues writhing. He begins to worry about Dean really hurting himself. For Dean's safety, he approaches the bed wondering how he can minimize Dean's movement. At the same time, he has to make sure he doesn't get hurt in the process. All he needs is a blow to the head to be in the same state. That would not be helpful in dealing with the situation.

He tentatively reaches out for a waving arm. Dean jerks back at the touch and fights harder. Sam doesn't release his grip. However, he does not account for Dean's stockiness. His strength is enough to pull Sam on the bed.

Sam has two options at this point. He can run away and let Dean keep hurting himself, or, he can hold Dean down until he calms. Both options suck. 

He loves Dean, though. He has let him down too many times and can't bear to do so again. So, acting quickly, he throws his body over Dean's, hip to hip, chest to chest. He grabs both wrists and holds them over Dean's head. Using his legs for leverage, he pushes with as much strength as he can without hurting him, and holds Dean down, all while calling Dean's name.

Ten minutes later, Sam is pretty sure he is going to die. His muscles ache from the continued pressure. He started crying at some point. He keeps trying to reach Dean. He must hear him eventually, right?

Dean's energy seems to be wearing down. He stops calling out for Sam, and finally, finally, his eyes open.

"Sam?"

 

"Dean, man! Dean, wake up. Dean!" Sam's voice shakes with something thick and cloying. Sam calls his name a few more times before Dean really registers the terror and exhaustion in his voice. 

"Hm?" he asks, finally becoming aware. His hands feel strangely numb. He has a moment of nausea. He swallows down the feeling. He starts to raise his hand to scrub at his face before realizing he can't move. "Sam?" 

He opens his eyes and sees Sam's face directly above his. He blinks up at his brother and frowns at the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

"Dean," Sam sighs his name in relief. He lowers his head to his brother's and exhales. His breath is hot on his face. Sam's grip on his wrists lessens, returning some blood flow, but he does not remove his hands. 

"Sammy? What happened? You 'k?" His voice is gruff. Sam starts to shake above him. Dean realizes Sam is straddling his hips and pressing against him all along his torso. Sam puffs another breath onto Dean's face. Dean swallows it down and remains still.

"You were dreaming, Dean," Sam whispers after a long stretch of silence. "Screaming. I couldn't, you wouldn't stop." He moves his forehead from side to side, nose brushing against Dean's with each pass. 

"How long?" His voice is hardly above a whisper.

Sam rocks forward to reach his lips to his brother's brow. Dean holds his breath to keep from gasping at the movement along his hips. With his hands held over his head, the lowest part of his stomach is bare. He feels Sam's shirt skirt over the skin there. He clenches and forces himself to hold still. So much for keeping himself under control. So much for not relying on Sammy. So much for being Dean and not a little shit. Maybe all Dean really is at his core is a little shit.

With a final squeeze, Sam releases Dean's arms and sits back on his heels. He looks at Dean for a moment, concern glazing his features. Dean makes himself breathe as that image is seared in his memory, then shuts off his brain. Both of them. Sam rolls over to lay next to him. His body slumps ungracefully into the pillows. 

"Ten minutes," he mumbles. "You were thrashing around. 'fraid you'd hurt yourself, so, I held you down."

"Shit." No wonder Sam is exhausted and, rightly, worried. Several minutes pass in relatively companionable silence. No sexual tension here. Nope. Not at all. Dean hopes Sam falls asleep, or else the trip he needs to make to the bathroom is going to be awkward.

"Can you tell me?" Sam says, breaking the silence and flipping to his side. He props his head against his fist. "What you were dreaming about? You were talking."

Dean looks up at his brother. The shadows under his eyes stand out in the dim lighting of the room. As interested as Sam looks, Dean can see he is about to collapse. The reason why he is exhausted causes interest to flare up in other parts of his body. Words fly off out of his mouth before he has time to process.

"I was remembering Waco. The ghost and…Dude, some freaky shit happened, right? It was way more than just an easy salt and burn. The little girl and the mill and—" He fingers the wound at his head with a frown, words slowing down into uncertainty. "This was from a gun?"

His voice trails off as he tries to find the pieces of the dream and put them back together.

"Gun? Dean, what the—" Sam raises a free hand to the bandage at his brow. Their fingers tangle, and Dean fights the hitch of his breath. Sam has the strength to restrain him, but he has gentleness, too. This softness. His touch is featherlight. His eyes want to flutter closed. 

Instead, he lowers his hand and sits up against the headboard. Sam's hand falls away.

"Yeah, uh." He clears his throat to change the subject, "The girl was possessed by the dead guy and he--" Dean stares up at the ceiling as his stomach growls. "Uh, how about we eat first? This might take a while." Sam laughs. They roll out of their respective sides of the bed and head to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!! :) Thanks for making it this far, I appreciate all the support! Y'all are great!
> 
> Also, I am tired of panic attacks and anxiety. Expect to see less of it in the last chapter.


	5. A Few Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tells Sam about his attic adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically all dialogue. So. Much. Dialogue.
> 
> Brief warning, there is a mention, like a sentence, about child brides and sexual assult. Nothing explicit. It's basically as much as what I just said and not about the main characters, but if that bothers you, I want you to be aware.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

"Yes!" Dean smiles toothily up at Sam with the Busty Asians mag in hand. Sam laughs and plops down at the kitchen table. 

"You asked for it," Sam says with a shrug. Dean turns from the counter and knocks Sam upside the head with the magazine. He runs his fingers through his hair. He coughs and turns away.

"Oh, man, I know what I'm doing tonight. Awesome." His cheeks glow and the goofy grin returns as he fingers through the pages for another moment. He huffs out one last laugh and tosses the magazine on the counter. He starts humming "Live and Let Die," as he bangs the frying pan onto the stove.

"Why did you get that?" Sam winces at the noise, eyeing the pan warily.

"Wanted it," Dean replies easily. With his back to him, Sam can't read his expression and finds that annoying. Were his legs not so tired, he would have thought about pulling his chair closer to see his reaction. 

"Why did you want it?" His little brother voice starts to worm its way out. He feels like he's seven again in an awful hotel room asking Dean twenty questions while they wait for John to return from a hunting trip. 

"'Why did you want it?'" Dean repeats in a high-pitched sing song voice. "I dunno, man. I liked it and thought it'd be good for bacon. 'S not like I went through a pros and cons list. I saw it, liked it, bought it. End of discussion." He punctuates every phrase with a short hand gesture. With his back facing him, Sam can see and hear John bleeding out into his brother's actions. It's weird but comforting.

Sam sits quietly and basks in nostalgia. Dean continues working. He fiddles with the pan before turning the burner on and heating it. He pulls the ingredients out. He seasons and shapes the ground beef into burger patties in a bowl on the counter. Sam watches his shoulders work with a contented sigh. 

"What about the other gifts?" Sam asks after a long moment of watching. Dean pauses to glance over his shoulder at the question. Sam cocks his head and brushes away the stands that fall back against his brow. Dean clears his throat. 

"Pretty much the same. Saw 'em, liked 'em, or thought they were freakin' hilarious, then bought 'em. Not rocket science, Zarkov."

Sam opens his mouth to ask another question, but Dean anticipates him and holds up a hand.

"If you promise to shut the hell up until we eat, then I will walk you through. Otherwise, I get to eat and you're going down for your nap, you little bitch."

"Ok, I promise," Sam snorts softly. He can feel Dean roll his eyes even from where he is sitting.

"Fine, well, uh, the dreidel thing, the top, for Cas. Seemed like something he'd like. Simple, easy to use. Right up his alley. And, uh, Jack is supposed to be a baby, so I thought that was funny, getting him a baby. Yeah, uh, obviously. Um, I didn't know what you'd like so I just, I dunno. I saw that, the, the soap, you know? There. You complain about smelling like flowers. This stuff didn't smell, so. Thought you'd like that." It's Dean's longest speech yet. Though choppy, Sam is pleased at his progress. He can remember the word "dreidel". That's a good start.

"What about the coffee mugs?" 

"Oh, uh, I'm…I just like them." Dean's voice cracks. He shifts on his feet, back still to Sam. For a moment, Sam is sure his ears burn. "I like green. They have green in 'em. The tea cups we have are way too small and dainty. I broke, what? Seven of 'em? So, uh, yeah. These mugs are study and hold the right amount coffee." He fiddles with the pan on the stovetop, letting the meat sizzle and continuing to avoid eye contact with Sam.

Sam feels at least seven jokes on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down.

Instead, he answers gently, "I thought red was your favorite color."

"Well, Mr. Smartypants, even you can learn something new every day." Dean chuckles at his "wit" and turns off the burner. "'K, grab the cheese and this is ready."

They settle around the kitchen table, burgers assembled, nonalcoholic drinks in hand, and just visit. Dean stumbles and trips over a few of his words, forgets phrasing and nouns, but, for the most part, Sam is less concerned about Dean's recovery requiring further medical attention or lasting longer than average. A concussion is a concussion this time.

"Sam, quit lookin' at me like that," Dean interrupts. Sam blinks and realizes his eyes are locked on the bandage on Dean's forehead.

"What? I'm not looking at you like anything," he sputters into his drink. Dean snorts and lifts his drink to his lips.

"Dude, you spaced out." Dean shakes his head and stretches. "You ready for bed?" 

Sam yawns but shakes his head in return.

"In a minute. I really need to know what happened." 

"Dude, I’m tired. You're tired. It can wait," Dean tries.

"Dean, come on. Your dream sounds like it was awful. And, being shot in the head? I have to know. Tell me the whole story, man." Sam leans forward on his elbows and balls his hands under his chin. He squints his eyes at Dean's form. Dean yields immediately. He leans back in his chair with a put-upon sigh.

"I know that look. You'll keep goin' until I cave." He takes a swig with a wince. "Pussy beer," he mutters. He yawns once more before speaking.

"Once upon a time," he starts in a deep voice. Sam rolls his eyes and Dean smirks. "Hey, listen. Once upon a time, there were two brothers who got into a bitchfight because one of them wanted to save people and the other," he pauses to raise his brows at Sam, "wanted to hunt down a Nephilim who didn't want to be found. The elder, more handsome brother—"

"Dean, we will be here all night if you go on like that. I'm tired. Get to the point."

"Bitch. Fine. Jesse and Cesar called. They'd found the case about the missing girl. They're still retired, asked us to look into it. You were bitching about, uh, Jack, yeah, Jack, again, so I left, came alone. I find out the girl's taken from the, the mill, go investigate during the day, gather intel. Interviews. Get conned into buying this shit. Whole nine yards." He pauses to take another drink. His voice is still scratchy from earlier. 

"Find out, the mill's first owner—"

"Thomas Nithercott," Sam interrupts.

"Yeah, you looked through my stuff?" Dean rolls his eyes but he doesn't seem to actually be bothered.

"Hm, yeah," Sam replies. "He built the mill in the 1700s in New York. It was brought to Texas eighty years ago to its current location. Was Nithercott's ghost tied to the mill?"

"No, thought so at first. But, did some digging. Heh," he pauses at his pun. Sam doesn't respond. Dean continues, smile still in place, "His body was moved with the water wheel, because that's a good idea. The family selling the wheel, years and years ago, insisted upon it. They musta known something." 

Sam stretches, "This does sound like a simple salt and burn. Where did it go from there? Where does the girl come in?"

"Couldn't find anything in the mill, couldn't find her. So, figured burning Nithercott would fix the everything. Free the girl or something. Anyway, snuck back after dark to the compound's cemetery. Dude, I barely put the shovel in the ground when I hear giggles. Yeah, some teenagers snuck down to do the dirty. I left everything and ran off to hide for a while. The closest building was the damn mill. I go in, but, without any gear."

"Shit." Sam's eyes widen. Dean knows how to tell a good story. He sets his bottle down and starts gesticulating the whole ordeal.

"Yeah. So, 'course the damn Nithercott dude decides to show up, in the girl's body. Freaky, yeah. I don't have a salt gun. There's iron everywhere but I can't just break off a bit of the machinery, the mill's turning." At a look from Sam, he adds, "And, it could hurt the girl, so not good. Anyway, Nithercott, uh, throws me around." 

Dean mimes the action with his own arms and Sam smiles at the dork. Dean begins his tale again, but Sam notices Dean is shifting in his chair. His eyes won't quite meet Sam's. He frowns and keeps listening.

"—Then, Sam, he starts monologuing. Honest to God, ghost monologuing with thee's and thou's and it was just shit. Son of a bitch just keeps going. It was freakin' hilarious. Bitching at me like a kid while in a kid's body." Dean shakes his head with a chuckle, but it's just not right. Dean's almost acting like he is hiding something from Sam.

"What was he bitching about?" Sam asks. He adds a smile to the end even if he wants to stare Dean down to get the truth.

"He was using thee's and thou's. I dunno and I didn't give a shit." He shrugs and leans back in his chair. Something in his eyes belies the calmness he is trying to show. 

He continues speaking, "Then, the Amish ass wipes barge in." 

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, they come barging in guns blasting. Nithercott is so surprised he hops town. The creeps jump me and take the girl." The label on Dean's beer is starting to peel. He picks at it with the continued feigned nonchalance. Sam notices a faint tremble in his fingers.

"Is this where the attic comes in?" He asks in hope to keep Dean on track. Dean nods.

"Yup. Two days of sitting in piss in the attic. It was hot." Dean is quiet for a long moment. He releases his gentle grip on the bottle to circle his wrists. A buzz of anger begins in Sam's sternum. He should have been there with Dean. He should not have let him go alone.

"How did you get out?" Sam replies tersely. Dean looks up at Sam's tone.

"Amish chick. They're kinky," he says with a smirk.

"Dean, come on," Sam gripes. 

"Seriously. Sometime during the second night, this chick sneaks up into the attic of the mill and unties me."

"Dean."

"Had her hands all over me."

"Dean!"

"How could I let all this," he gestures at himself, "go to waste? Poor girl didn't know what she was missing. Had to fill her in."

"You just said you smelled like piss and sweat."

"Uh," Dean tries to find an argument. When he fails, he shakes his head and continues his story. "Fine, well, she was whining about a girl stealing her husband or something. I don't ask." 

Probably very dehydrated, Sam thinks.

"Nithercott had been showing up every few hours to throw shit at me, it's annoying. He kept trying to monologue but he really didn't like it when I'd serenade him with Zep. So, the girl is working at the knots, heh, and I tell him to shut it. The girl yells at me for yellin' at him, and he's still talking at me. Some guy hears us yelling and shoots up into the rafters." Dean points at his noggin. His eyes go wide, like he's trying to sell a lie. Sam frowns.

"You were shot? In the head? By one of the men from the compound?"

"Yeah, I guess. I dunno. It starts to get a little hazy after that." Dean sits back and scratches at his jaw. "I vaguely remember falling down some stairs. I'm pretty sure into the idiot with the gun."

"He's not the idiot," Sam mutters. This doesn't make sense, Sam thinks.

"Shup. I don't know details but I do know there's a kerfuffle. He ends up down. I hightail it back to the cemetery. Nithercott is still hounding me with Monty Python crap. But, lucky for me, all my crap is still there at his grave. I dig the hole, salt and burn Nithercott, curse a bit, and voila. Case closed." He bows forward in his chair expecting applause. Sam studies him instead.

"What happened to the little girl?" He asks. 

Dean frowns. "I don't know." His hand raises to play with the bandage at his brow. Sam answers for him.

"Well, I can tell you she's safe. I found a news article saying she'd been returned to her family. The whole incident is being blamed on a previous offender." Sam raises his eyebrows pointedly. 

"Ew." Dean scrunches his nose as he realizes where Sam is going with it.

"Oh, yeah. There was a whole incident something like six years ago. Child brides and sexual assault cases."

"Ewww." Dean takes a big sip and finally drains his beer. He looks at the bottle in disgust. "Wish this was real. The girl ok?" He keeps his eyes on the bottle, on his hands, as he asks.

"She's fine, Dean. She wasn't hurt." 

Dean nods. Sam can see the guilt already blossoming across his face.

"Seriously, Dean. You got there in time. Those sick bastards didn't have a chance to hurt her." Sam leans forward in hopes of getting Dean to look at him.

"Right. I should have scared those damn teens away from the cemetery. I should of—"

"Dean, shut up. You did what you could. If you blame anyone, blame me. I sat here wallowing for four days. I never found anything to help Jack or anyone. Had I been there, maybe we could have solved the case days sooner. Maybe no one would have been hurt. But, I wasn't there. We are not starting the blame game." As soon as Sam begins to blame himself, Dean's head snaps to attention. He leans forward, too, to try to halt Sam's pain. Sam finds himself, at the end of his speech, silent. A tender sort of look overcomes Dean's face. 

"Yeah, yeah, Sam," he starts, voice breaking. "You're right. It's not about fault." He leaves the table, taking both plates with him to the sink. 

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You know you can tell me what really happened, right?" Dean's shoulders stiffen. He continues washing the plates.

"What are you talking about?"

"Whenever you're ready, I'll listen, 'k? I'm not gonna judge you."

"Uh, well, I mean," Dean starts, but he can't finish his sentence.

"Dean, really. It's fine. Whatever really happened, it's all fine." Sam finally stands on shaky legs and approaches Dean at the sink. Dean turns his face away but Sam captures his wrist. "Really, Dean. I mean it." 

Dean lets out a sigh and grabs Sam's hand. He gives a quick squeeze and a nod before returning to the dishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were more plot holes than I was prepared to deal with in one chapter, so I extended chapter count. I'm about halfway through the last chapter and am optimistic it will be completed relatively soon :) 
> 
> Some angst is coming, but also a bit of fluff. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Y'all are awesome!


	6. The Truth, Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally tells Sam what really happened during his easy hunting trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning/Spoiler: Some suicidal ideation. Mentioned in the past. But, it's not really? Not sure how to warn about this. It's the bad guy being bad and encouraging bad thoughts, if that helps?
> 
> This chapter is much longer than the rest but I didn't want to split it. This is the end :) Thanks for making it this far with me!
> 
> Unbeta'd
> 
> Edit: Added a pic of the list I envisioned Dean writing

Dean runs his fingers over the raised seam on Baby's wheel. The movement, so familiar, is soothing. But, it's not enough. He tips his head forward and bangs it against the wheel.

"Damn it," he whispers to the air. He loves Baby, but she's not the same as a warm body.

He pats her gently and exits, making sure to avoid slamming the door. He trails his fingers over her roof, then hood, leaving smears in the dirt. He makes a mental note to wash her.

With a sigh, he turns his back on his Baby and starts to his room. He fights against the weariness in his head, but he needs sleep.

He slips under his sheets and finds his eyes drawn toward the ceiling.

No one will know.

The little girl's damn voice repeats over and over and over.

No one will know. No one will know. No one will know.

No one will know where his body lies. No one will know who killed him. No one will know where the girl's body is. No one will know he didn't kill himself.

No one will know this is what he wanted.

Dean shakes his head and rolls over. His stitches grumble at him for mashing them against the pillow. With a sigh, he flips to the other side and prays for sleep to take him.

No one will know.

"Son of a bitch," he whispers and sits up. The voice won't shut up. Alcohol would probably silence her, but Sam won't let him have any. Or let him drive. Ugh.

Around eleven, after Sam had conked out, Dean had brought the Busty Asians mag with him to his room. The girl's tits on the cover and her lustful smile had been too plastic, though. A handjob with her staring at him was unappealing. Besides, he doesn't want sex. He wants to hold someone. He wants to feel warm flesh under his fingers. He wants to squeeze tight and never let go. He wants to freakin' cuddle. What a bitch.

He slips out of his room at that thought, and peers into Sam's room. Sam's deep breaths welcome him. It's amazing how Sam's breathing has remained the same after all these years.

Deep breath in. Pause. Slow breath out. Repeat.

The only difference is an added snore, but, even now, Dean finds that more comforting than annoying. The thought of Sam's breath is more soothing than any porn mag could ever be. He smiles softly at his brother before shutting the door and returning to his own room.

Once inside, he turns on his desk lamp. He pulls the chair out from his desk and flops into it. After a moment, he pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen and begins to write.

 

The next morning, Sam wakes up to something covering his face. He has a moment to freak, arms flailing and breath hitching, before he realizes it's a piece of paper. He slides his knife back under his bed with a laugh. He looks down at the paper and feels a frown appear.

It's a list. Sam looks at Dean's scribbled writing.

Sam feels his frown deepen. Most of this information is not a surprise, but the "SADISTIC SHIT" in all caps catches his attention. What did Nithercott do?

Sam rolls out of bed, careful to avoid crumpling the paper. He walks to Dean's room and knocks gently. Dean doesn't reply. He peers in the room. Dean is snoring gently with his face smashed against the pillows. Sam closes the door quietly and heads into the kitchen.

He starts a pot of coffee and continues considering the list. A full night's rest did not ease the anger that had begun at the thought of Dean's injury being a direct result of Sam's lack of involvement in the case. He had been right there, right at this table when Dean got the call.

Dean had asked, "Case, Texas. You up for it?"

Sam had replied with some bitchy comment about making Jack the priority over cases.

Dean had walked out of the room with a muttered, "Bitch."

In ten minutes, he had packed and left without another word. Sam had stewed.

Right before the argument, they had talked. Dean had said, "We just keep working, 'cause it's what we do." He was right and that's probably what pisses Sam off the most. He was completely in the wrong. Because of his stubborn pettiness, Dean could have died. Again. This time, all alone. Sam wouldn't have known where he was.

The grumbling of the coffee pot finishing its brew breaks Sam out of his pondering. He shakes his head and reaches for one of the new mugs. He touches the simple design again. Dean had written something about eyes on his list. Sam shakes the possibility away that he was talking about Sam, and pours himself a cup.

He takes his mug into the War Room. Sam leans back in his chair, cradling his coffee between his hands. The mug is a better size than the tea cups.

The papers from Dean's hunt are still scattered about the table. He sits down and sets the list Dean had written next to the other papers. Obviously, Dean was trying to tell him something important. Something about Nithercott.

Sam turns his attention away from the papers before him. Why would Nithercott possess a girl? What had changed in the past eighty years to make Nithercott become active?

Sam sips at his coffee and stares blankly forward. The pieces don't add up. He's missing something.

He pulls his laptop toward him. Fifteen minutes later, he's hacked into the Craft Village accounts. An overwhelming amount of red provides him with a simple answer: the Craft Village is going bankrupt.

So, assume Nithercott is just a regular ghost. He follows the mill around. He's dormant for years and years, and then, someone mentions closing the mill. Nithercott gets fired up, turns vengeful, and what? Possesses the Sara girl? Why?

Sam focuses his efforts into researching the girl and her family. He lets out an incredulous chuckle. Sara's mother is a descendant of Nithercott. Sara's father, Donald, owns a huge ranch in west Texas. Ghostly blackmail?

He searches through Dean's notes. He finds the sheet summarizing the interviews Dean had completed.

"What are you doing?" Dean's voice causes Sam to jump hard enough to bang his knees against the table.

"Dean!" Sam yelps in surprise. He rubs his knees and scrunches his nose. "Ow, hey, I got your note. I was trying to figure it out."

Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

"Yeah, it made more sense at two A.M. than it probably does now. What'd ya find?"

Sam relates the information he gathered and runs it by Dean.

"They were related? Damn, wow, missed that. I knew they were rich. The parents were snobs when I talked to them. Hold on, I need coffee." Dean returns a moment later holding one of the new mugs. He sits on the edge of the table next to Sam. Sam's elbow brushes his knee.

Sam clears his throat. He looks up at his brother. Dark rings line his eyes, and his eyes don't seem to want to open all the way.

"Did you sleep?" He asks.

"Yeah, but not great. Couldn't fall asleep. Had dreams, but not as bad as before, you know." A yawn swallows his features.

Sam reaches for the list and hands it over to Dean.

"Wanna explain this to me? And, hey, why'd you have to leave it on my face. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Oh, uh, I dunno. No, I don't really want to talk about it," he scratches his chin, "but, maybe I should."

Sam considers for a moment before replying, "How about this, let's go for a drive. Maybe stop for lunch, have a soda or somethin'."

Dean snorts. "Fine. Sounds good."

 

Sam takes the wheel. Dean tries to act like he's okay with it, sunglass on and smug smile in place, but Sam can see the tense set of his shoulders and unease as he rests in the passenger seat.

Sam compares him to a few days ago, empty-eyed and wordless. He's pleased at the progress Dean's made.

Kind of as a joke, he starts pointing at objects and asks Dean to tell him what they are.

"Barn. Cow. Tree," Dean answers, annoyed.

"But, what kind of tree?" Sam pushes.

"Sam, I dunno. Willow?" Dean shrugs and leans further back in his seat. Sam smiles.

"Actually, yeah. It's a black willow."

"Why do you even know that?" Dean asks skeptically. Sam blushes.

"I read. It's not like I only read sci-fi and lore." Dean snorts and begins to relax.

"I'm good. You don't have to keep testing me."

"Yeah, I know." A long silence passes between the two of them. He stops at a convenience store. Dean runs in and grabs them a six pack of sodas and ice for the cooler.

Sam decides to take them to the lake. He grabs the blanket from the back seat. Dean grabs the cooler. They settle in the grass with their drinks, facing the water.

After a long stretch of enjoying the weather, Sam pulls out the list. He feels Dean clench next to him. Sam decides to begin easily.

"Dimples?" His eyes slide to Dean's profile. Dean's ears turn bright red. He lifts the soda to his lips.

"Well, you have them," he mumbles.

"Yeah, and you poked them," Sam laughs. Dean ducks his head and tries to hide his own embarrassed laughter.

"Sorry. I used to do that when you were little. You loved it." Sam laughs harder. He reaches over to squeeze Dean's shoulder.

"It's ok, man. I didn't mind. It was cute."

"You giggled like a girl. I assumed you didn't mind too much." It's Sam's turn to blush.

"I was surprised. Not like I can help that. You were poking my face!"

"Yeah, yeah. Make your excuses. At least I was incapacitated." At Sam's shocked look, Dean steps up to rescue him. "Hey, how did you find me, anyway?"

"Tracked your phone. I don't have to do it often but that doesn't mean I can't."

"Hm," Dean hums. "But, the manager? He came into my room?"

"I called the motel. Told him my brother had been in an accident. Promised to pay a large sum of money to keep the police out of it. Anyway, he called me back on his cell and went into the room to check on you. I figured you were still using the Russel ID. He filled me in while he was with you. Told me he needed to call an ambulance."

"Oh, ok. I guess that makes sense." Dean stares off at the lake. He slides to front of the blanket. He searches the grass. When he finds a suitable rock, he throws it gracefully into the lake. "You can go ahead and ask, Sammy."

Knowing Dean finds it easier to talk to him when they're not making eye contact, Sam keeps his eyes on his brother's back. Dean continues digging around for more rocks.

"Nithercott, you said he was, he was a, a 'sadistic shit'…?" Sam prompts nervously.

Dean's breath comes out harshly in a hard blow of air. Dean takes so long to reply Sam thinks he has changed him mind. But, finally, he starts.

"Yeah, I mean, I've had worse. Way worse. I've done worse, but, he just, he got under my skin, Sammy. He picked at something even the demons knew to leave alone." He picks a rock and flips it between his fingers.

"He was in the girl, made it worse. She kept, the girl, she kept sayin', 'No one will know.'" He chucks a rock and takes a long sip from his soda. "This would be easier with alcohol," he complains.

Sam does his thing, remains silent, lets Dean take his time to say what he needs to say. Silence, when Dean's like this, is the best prompt.

"I have nothing without you, Sam. Everybody knows it. And, when, Nithercott left the girl, he, well, he entered me. The Amish dudes, they were restraining me. They weren't trying to keep me captive. It wasn't like they were being evil or anything, I was, I wasn't in control. I couldn't do anything. And, he was there, Nithercott, throwing them around like nuthin'. Worse, though, he was inside me and, and poking around everything I didn't want anyone to see." His voice trails off. His fingers leave the grass to rotate the soda bottle within his hands.

"I…I, Sam, I…" Dean's head falls forward. A sob escapes his mouth. "There is so much hate inside me. And, you know who I hate?" He chokes on another sob. "Nobody is more messed up than me, and I don't, I don't deserve—"

"Dean—" Sam starts. He half raises one hand before Dean interrupts.

"No, I gotta say this." He takes a deep breath and spits all of his words out in a stuttering stumble, "Sam, I-I shouldn't be alive, and, if I were anywhere else but with you, then, then I wouldn't be. Nithercott, he saw. Not just that, but, but how I felt about you. And…" He pauses. "I…It wasn't an Amish chick who untied me, Sam. It was Sara. The sickos didn't even try to return her to her family after Nithercott jumped me. Finally, after two days in that damn attic screaming Zep I was able to take control of myself. He went back into the girl. She snuck up to the attic with a gun, and, and, she was so strong."

Dean is quiet. Sam shifts to his knees and moves closer, but is still out of his line of sight. He rests a hand on his shoulder and gives a squeeze.

"She put the gun in my hands. 'No one will know, Dean.' And, I was, he did something to me, Sammy. He had to've, because, I would never…Knowing you were alive, I would never…Even with these messed up feelings, I wouldn't leave without saying somethin'…"

Sam's knees bring him even closer. Dean's pain is palpable. He wants to ease the pain, but he knows, just knows that Dean needs this. He needs the catharsis.

"She put my finger over the trigger. Her hands, they're so small, but strong. She made me. She, Nithercott, they raised the gun to my, my—" he runs one shaky finger across the bandage at his temple. "I saw it all happening, and I kept thinking, I should stop. I shouldn't do this. But, I looked up at her and knew this was, this was it. I was going to die, for real. I was gonna die, Sammy, and, and, Sam, you'd never know what happened, or why." He takes a long draw of his soda. He throws the bottle into the water and draws his arm across his eyes. He blows out a breath and continues.

"Then, ectoplasm dribbled out of her ear. The ooze, I dunno, freaked me out. Pushed her away. The gun went off. I fell." He exhales. "Ran into an Amish dude. Hightailed it outta there. Started digging. And, well, you know the rest."

Dean scrubs his face again with the flannel at his inner elbow. Sam finally closes the distance between them. He pulls Dean into his side with a hard squeeze.

"The worst part, Sam," Dean's voice breaks, "I didn't want to stop her. What I feel, ugh, I'm broken, Sammy. I'm broken and tired. I want to let go, let it all go."

He turns his face into Sam's neck. Sam shifts to circle both arms around him. Dean wraps his arms around himself, and sobs eek out. Sam feels his neck heat with each puff of troubled breath. He rubs up and down his arms, letting him calm on his own.

After a while, when the tears stop, Sam gently pushes Dean back. He leaves one arm around Dean. The other he places on Dean's warm face. Dean stares up at him, eyes red and swollen. The green of his irises stands out in stark comparison to the broken blood vessels in his eyes. Sam is struck, again, by the beauty before him. He softly strokes his thumb back and forth along his cheekbone. Dean's eyes flutter closed.

"Who told you that you were broken?" Sam asks softly. Dean sniffs unhappily.

"I don't need to be told. I know I am."

"Why, Dean? Why do you think you're so broken you don't deserve to live?" Sam voice breaks. He moves his other hand to Dean's face. He cups both cheeks and presses hard enough to make him open his eyes. "Why?"

"Don't make me say it, Sammy," Dean's voice cracks out. He tries to turn his face away from Sam, but Sam keeps his grip tight.

"No, Dean. Say it." A perfect tear pools in his right eye and slides down. Sam presses his forehead hard into Dean's. "Say it," he growls.

Dean whimpers and whispers, "Love you, Sam."

Sam rewards him with a gentle chaste kiss.

"Nothing is broken in you, Dean. Nothing, you hear me? I'll always love you."

They sit like that, Dean wrapped in Sam's arms, foreheads mashed together, until the sun is hot overhead. Dean's breath on Sam's face is hot. Sam is sweating at every point of contact.

"Hey, let's go, 'k?" Dean pulls back from Sam but catches one of his hands in his own determinedly. Sam smiles. He leans to kiss Dean's brow. Dean snorts and shoves him. He hauls Sam to his feet toward the Impala.

 

Back at the bunker, Sam drags Dean to his room. Dean follows clumsily. The confessions of the day have left him sluggish and raw. He shoves Dean onto the bed. He flops back and allows Sam to manhandle him. He removes him of his boots, and takes off his belt and flannel. He throws his legs back on the bed.

"Be right back," Sam mutters. He hurries to the War Room and grabs his laptop. When he returns, he sees Dean has slipped under the sheets and piled the majority of the pillows behind him.

"What're we watching?" he asks. Sam sits on the other side of the bed. He removes his own shoes and slides in next to Dean.

"What do you want to watch?"

"Die Hard."

Sam snorts and agrees. He settles the computer in his lap, and pulls the movie up (illegally). John McClane is hardly introduced before Dean slides closer to Sam. He twists to his side and curls up next to him. Sam smiles, wraps a hand around him, and pulls him in closer. He plants a kiss on his forehead. Dean replies by passing his lips over his shoulder.

"Hey, this is my favorite part," Dean whines when Sam begins tracing his fingers up his back. Sam laughs as Dean mimics McClane saying, "Come out to the coast, we'll get together, have a few laughs..."

The movie plays on and eventually they lay tangled up together flat on the bed. Dean's breathing is soft and slow on Sam's chest. A sudden thought occurs to him.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" Dean grunts tiredly.

"The mugs. Why did you get them, really?" Sam shifts to peer down at Dean's head when Dean tenses. "You crossed out 'eyes' on the paper. What'd you mean?"

An embarrassed moan escapes his mouth, "Sammy, haven't I told you enough today?"

"No," Sam answers and begins poking at the sensitive spots under Dean's arms.

"Hey, no fair. Sam, no! I'm supposed to tickle you!" It's Dean's turn to collapse into a fit of giggles. "Yield, yield! I'm too tired for this shit."

Sam stops. He slides down to be eye-level with Dean. His feet hang off the bed, but he can tolerate it for now.

"Well?"

"It's, oh Sam, you know the answer. Your eyes are hazel and those cups, green and brown, I dunno. They matched and I liked it!" Dean's face turns a precious shade of red. He screws up his eyes much like an embarrassed child would.

Sam cackles at his reaction. "Dean, I literally thought the green matched your eyes."

"Wait, what?" He opens his eyes uncertainly.

"Yup." Sam bites his lip to hide a grin. It does nothing but draw Dean's attention to his lips.

"Huh," Dean answers and licks his bottom lip, drawing it in to suck on it.

"Yeah. So, quit being weird. We're feeling, just, mutually, ok?" Sam feels his own cheeks heat but a light has entered Dean's eyes.

"Yeah, ok," he replies. His eyes never leave Sam mouth. He takes the initiative, and presses their lips together.

"Ok," Sam whispers.

Dean closes the laptop and places it on the floor. He flicks off the light next to Sam's bed and curls against him again.

"'Ok,'" Dean mocks in a singsong voice. Sam punches his shoulder but Dean submits immediately. They return to their curled up position and fall into a restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We reached the end! What started as a oneshot became much more than I bargained for. Thank you all for your encouragement and for reading! Helped me make it through to the end. Hopefully, I will continue writing and receive such positive responses. Y'all are awesome.
> 
> The pic of Dean's list is from my sideblog on Tumblr: Wincesty-ish?  
> https://idkitiswhatitis.tumblr.com/
> 
> If you or anyone you know struggles with suicidal thoughts, please seek help! As my family says: you are loved and we want to see you happy, healthy, and living right (whatever that looks like to you).  
> https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
> 
> If I didn't tag something that needs tagging, please let me know!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Are NOT My Dad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559392) by [Idkitiswhatitis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idkitiswhatitis/pseuds/Idkitiswhatitis)




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